isks and things.'

'I'm not,' said Anthea, 'you know I'm not.' But Cyril was gone.

It was warm under the blanket and the hearthrug, and Jane snuggled up
close to her sister; and Anthea cuddled Jane closely and kindly, and in
a sort of dream they heard the rise of a wave of mewing as Robert opened
the door of the nursery. They heard the booted search for baskets in
the back kitchen. They heard the side door open and close, and they
knew that each brother had gone out with at least one cat. Anthea's
last thought was that it would take at least all night to get rid of
one hundred and ninety-nine cats by twos. There would be ninety-nine
journeys of two cats each, and one cat over.

'I almost think we might keep the one cat over,' said Anthea. 'I don't
seem to care for cats just now, but I daresay I shall again some day.'
And she fell asleep. Jane also was sleeping.

It was Jane who awoke with a start, to find Anthea still asleep. As, in
the act of awakening, she kicked her sister, she wondered idly why
they should have gone to bed in their boots; but the next moment she
remembered where they were.

There was a sound of muffled, shuffled feet on the stairs. Like the
heroine of the classic poem, Jane 'thought it was the boys', and as
she felt quite wide awake, and not nearly so tired as before, she crept
gently from Anthea's side and followed the footsteps. They went down
into the basement; the cats, who seemed to have fallen into the sleep
of exhaustion, awoke at the sound of the approaching footsteps and mewed
piteously. Jane was at the foot of the stairs before she saw it was not
her brothers whose coming had roused her and the cats, but a burglar.
She knew he was a burglar at once, because he wore a fur cap and a red
and black charity-check comforter, and he had no business where he was.

If you had been stood in jane's shoes you would no doubt have run away
in them, appealing to the police and neighbours with horrid screams. But
Jane knew better. She had read a great many nice stories about burglars,
as well as some affecting pieces of poetry, and she knew that no burglar
will ever hurt a little girl if he meets her when burgling. Indeed, in
all the cases Jane had read of, his burglarishness was almost at once
forgotten in the interest he felt in the little girl's artless prattle.
So if Jane hesitated for a moment before addressing the burglar, it
was only because she could not at once think of any remark sufficien